Zombies On A Plane_Still Alive Book Three

by Javan Bonds

  But knowing my damn luck, something will go horribly wrong and we’ll be stuck down here for a week, won’t find anything more than his body, and will barely make it back after losing a few appendages or a main protagonist. Maybe I can get Smokes to have a conversation with The Screenwriter; he should give me a break for ONCE.

  ☠☠☠

  2

  Chief Engineer Gene Stanley’s Log 1

  IF YOU FOUND Mo’s first journal, you may know me as The Tech. Mo told me about his writings, his inspiration (plus a list of books to read if we happen to scavenge them), and I agree that someone should chronicle current events. He explained the reason he titled his journals, for the name of his replica caravel, The Viva Ancora, or the Cora, as we call her.

  Though our writing styles are as different as Jedi and Sith, our missions are as similar as Romulan and Vulcan genetics, so I hope my increased vernacular does not bore you any more than the new Godzilla probably did. As a child, I devoured Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, classic science fiction, and everything since then about aliens, robots, or outer space.

  Excelsior Comics and Collectables, the shop I own and manage, has recently become my home though I have always spent a fair amount of time there. It has complete solar electrical independence, and it puts me closer to Georgia, Daniel Daniels’ distraught widow, who, so far, just seems to need a friend. The Admiral (Mo calls her The Expert, Captain Sledge), and the all-knowing-all-seeing token black guy–titled The Oracle, Marlon “Smokes” Williamson have journeyed with Mo by plane to Birmingham, on a quest to rescue Mo’s brother. The remainder of the primary group has chosen to stay in Guntersville to continue developing our thriving island community. I’m monitoring their radio communication; maybe now I will finally be able to catch up on Lost. The away team is reportedly closing on Birmingham International Airport and will be landing soon. Though I have not been in direct audio contact with the travelers, Mayor Randy Collins, Mo’s dad, has been in nearly constant communication with the trio. I hope they are safe and everything works out within an hour like most adventures involving the Enterprise. Oh no…I just realized: Smokes is wearing a red SHIRT!

  3

  Mo Journal Entry 2

  REMEMBER THAT FLYOVER of New York City in I Am Legend, after the end of the world, where there’s nothing moving at all? This was like that. I mean, I’ve been up here before; I went to the occasional local air shows as a kid and got to ride in some of the small planes. Marshall County, Alabama doesn’t have ten million residents, but you could see traffic on the highway and cows in the pastures. Now, absolutely nothing; not a single sign of life anywhere. No cars moving, no banners on top of buildings that read “alive inside” or “help us” or anything. This has been one boring plane ride. I want a refund.

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Cracka, we be on da ground if we was. Where we gonna land dis thang anyway?”

  “I figured the airport. I reckon you don’t need much runway; it’s not like you’ll have to coordinate with the FAA.”

  I knew Birmingham’s international airport was fairly large, though I had never actually been in the airport. I had driven past it several times and was pretty sure we’d have room even if the runways were cluttered and if, for some strange reason, the airport was inaccessible, I was fairly certain we could find a stretch of empty highway on which to land.

  The Oracle looked grim as he spoke, “I don’t know watchoo thankin’ white bread, Beavas ain’t made fo nuffin but wata.”

  It’s a good thing I don’t have a weak stomach. “You have to be shitting me.”

  Smokes nearly fell out of his seat with an explosion of laughter. “Hells yeah dawg! I’s fuckin wichoo! Alex gots custom wheels built in da floats.”

  I looked at him suspiciously, smirking at the name he had dubbed the plane. He continued, “I lay on da dock and checked all up inside fo wheels afo we lef!”

  I was hesitantly satisfied, still a little uncomfortable. He looked at me like I was an evil heretic. “Scats, I could land dis shit in a swimmin’ pool if I had to, fo sho.”

  I was incredulous. “I’d rather you not when there’s a perfectly good fucking airport with runways right below us. That would be an embarrassing way to die.”

  The Oracle simply shrugged his shoulders in acceptance. “As you wish, cracka.”

  Look, I survived the zombie apocalypse. Next I held together survivors to make our post-Armageddon life easier. I saved the woman I love and my parents, who were The Reasons, from imminent decimation by The Villain, an insane para military band. After that, I turned Guntersville peninsula into an actual island, which became a sanctuary for any survivor that asked for refuge. There was no way I was going out by swimming pool? I would be so pissed that I would kill Smokes again!

  I had discussed with my father that I would keep my radio on at least for the plane trip. You know, in case I had to give a quick farewell as we tumbled to earth. The radio buzzed. “Mo. This is Logan. You copy?”

  “Yeah, Gene. What’s up?”

  “Ran across any blunatics yet?” His smile could be heard through the radio.

  “’Blunatics?’” I had to ask. That was a new one. I half guessed he was using that word to refer to peevies. I wanted to say, “Yes, Gene we’ve been in the air for twenty fucking minutes. Of course we’ve had clashes with hordes of revenants,” but I let him have his moment.

  He sounded back. “Combination of ‘blue’ and ‘lunatics,’ get it?”

  I played dumb for him. “I’m talking about the zombies. Lucas-esque, don’t you think?”

  “Uh, yeah, Gene…pretty cool, man.” Thanks for the verification. Does everyone think I’m a retard? I exhaled. “Nothing yet, still in the plane.” I wanted to add “dumbass” but remained civil. “When we touchdown, I’ll let you know if we run into any ‘blunatics.’” That’s actually a pretty good one. I think I’m going to start using it.

  　　 　☠☠☠

  After several minutes, The Oracle had seemingly forgotten all about our previous conversation. He rocked in his seat and said, “I need to talk to a man ‘bout a dawg.”

  An older line, but not unheard of. He needed to pee.

  I felt like my mother scolding a petulant child. “We were at the Cora just a few minutes ago! Why didn’t you go before we left?”

  He cut his eyes at me and wheezed as he rocked back and forth. I continued, “You’ll just have to wait until we land, we can’t pull over.”

  He howled in pain. “Mufucka, I’s ‘bout to go R. Kelly on yo ass!”

  I looked around for some type of receptacle; I pulled an empty Mountain Dew bottle from under the seat. I lifted it and offered it to him as he looked over with disgust. “Fuck you cracka, I’m black!”

  I was a bit offended. “So? I use Coke bottles all the time!”

  If you’re a guy, you know exactly what I’m thinking. We’ve all pissed in bottles rather than stop the car; Big Gulp in, Big Gulp out. I almost had a Dumb and Dumber moment in high school when my mom decided to take a full Mountain Dew bottle from my passenger seat and stick it in the fridge. She was probably checking my car to make sure I didn’t have any used condoms or marijuana cigarettes in there. That incident taught me to always smell before consuming.

  “I don’t give a fuck if you can stick yo tiny white pecker in–“

  “No! Just–for God’s sake–be a good aim!”

  He looked at me again as if I had no idea what I was talking about and pushed the proffered Mountain Dew bottle back in my direction. I angrily said, “Fine, just fucking piss your pants, I don’t give a shit!”

  My over-weight friend reached down to his left and lifted an empty thirty-two ounce styrofoam cup, grinning. “DIS how we do it mufucka. Turn yo head or da beauty of it might make ya gay.”

  I turned my head for my own obvious reasons as he made splashing sounds and noises I’d only heard during pornos. In between moans, he continued regaling me with details of his amazin
g member. I was too busy looking below to pay attention to his ramblings; the city of Birmingham had just come into view.

  I gestured for him to do a quick flyover of the dead city, hoping to see movement or any signs of life. I held out hope that we would discover the two sexiest fat men alive, Rick and Bubba, patrolling the streets of the lifeless metropolis and keeping order. Nothing. I was still optimistic; maybe we just needed to drive by the radio station after we landed, perhaps they were somehow still doing broadcasts. I made a mental note to scan through the stations and listen for Bill “Bubba” Bussey doing a “phone-trolls” or screaming “Stay In It”. Sorry, non-Alabamans…I probably left y’all behind there.

  “Dat smell just like bologna fo some reason.” The Oracle quoted Robert Downey Jr. from Tropic Thunder while snapping the lid back onto the cup.

  I honestly don’t know why I did it, but I sniffed and nodded in agreement; an animal instinct, I suppose.

  Hammer, in the back, contemplating our mission parameters, leaned forward and rang in her agreement, scaring the holy hell out of me. I had almost forgotten she’d tagged along, she’d been so quiet.

  As we circled back in the direction of the airport, The Oracle nearly passed out with joy. “Lordy mercy child! Da land of milk and honey!”

  Before I could even find what he saw, he veered the plane to the right and for a horrifying nano-second I thought he was going to a nose-dive Alex into the ground.

  We leveled off and Smokes didn’t appear to notice my life streaking before my eyes. I swallowed the shrill scream and calmly asked, “What’d you do that for? We don’t need to put Hammer’s heart under extra stress.” I settled myself and looked very annoyed at him, cleverly deflecting my own terror.

  As if that was a completely routine maneuver, the seer turned for what seemed like an unsafe length of time while flying a plane.

  “Just a course correction, mufucka.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “To?”

  He pointed down to a pile up on the interstate. I was expecting to see a Hostess truck, immediately realizing the scene below was just like one in Zombieland. It would be pretty cool to run into Woody Harrelson, though. It goes without saying that this might be the most important find of Smokes’s life: a Newport eighteen wheeler. I wasn’t sure how we would transport a tractor-trailer full of cigarettes, but I’m sure The Oracle would cross that bridge when we got there.

  I looked up, taking a breath to ask where we would land but he answered the question on my lips by pointing out the left window.

  There was a completely clean stretch of interstate at least the length of a football field only a few hundred yards from our intended destination. That had to be more than luck!

  I cut my eyes at him, still not completely trusting that we had landing gear. “That’s not water.”

  “I done told you dick wrangler, we got wheels.”

  The Oracle landed smoothly on our open four lane runway. Yet again, I am proven to be faithful depending on the weather. It’s not that I want to doubt his words, I just have a hard time accepting that which I cannot touch, see, or smell.

  Once the plane was barely crawling, Smokes slung his door open, flung himself out, and was running at the speed of one of those skinny African dudes at the Olympics. I wasn’t sure how it was possible for him, but I was even more surprised he was able to stop without falling over.

  He stood at the doors, smiling like a kid on Christmas as his passengers walked up behind him.

  He drew his shotgun which alerted the two of us to draw weapons as well. He deftly jumped onto the back bumper of the tractor trailer and shot the lock for the sliding door. I immediately felt stupid for expecting any kind of peevie incursion during the middle of the day. But as he opened the door to reveal cavernous black, I realized why we had drawn our guns.

  It just didn’t seem worth risking my life to get a fix for a habit I no longer partook of. “I ain’t going in–“

  He raised a hand to silence me. “Don’t care, mufucka.” And he was gone. He raced into the gaping maw of assured death before I could say another word.

  Hammer and I stood staring into the empty blackness for a moment, stupefied and expecting to hear The Oracle’s death throes as he was mauled. When we were able to close our jaws, she broke a glow stick and tossed it into the abyss. With the blackness now bathed in a weird green glow, we watched a scene from a classic martial arts movie featuring Fat Albert as the hero.

  Smokes ran at a peevie that was already running at him, he drew a knife as he charged at the monster and plunged the serrated blade into the top of its left shoulder while it was in midair. It felt like The Matrix; things impossibly stopped as he raised his shotgun to the creature’s head and let loose a blast of buckshot.

  As it fell, The Oracle yanked his bloody blade free before straightening his arm and launching the dagger at another enemy coming towards him from somewhere off screen. The blade lodged in this one’s throat, sending it to the floor to choke to death on its own blood.

  What the fuck? Zombies attacking one at a time? Of course, none of them were wearing shirts, I was expecting his final opponent to walk up slowly, say a few words overlaid by an American narrator, bow, and engage in martial combat to the death.

  It was unbelievable to see McDonald’s number one customer spin like a ballerina and blow holes through his attackers.

  There were five naked people dead, really dead, on the floor at his feet and The Oracle looked completely untouched. The only way I knew that had even just fucking happened was the fact that he was drenched in sweat. I take that back, Smokes is always covered in sweat and should carry one of those old man handkerchiefs. If The Expert had not been staring with the same incredulous amazement, I would have assumed I had merely imagined the epic fight scene.

  The tractor-trailer was basically empty of tobacco; we were able to see nothing but empty shelves. Our token prophet walked to the corner, picked something up with reverence, and carried out a box of at least a dozen cartons of Newport Unfiltered.

  He smiled, the victorious champion. “Told you mufucka. I gots what I come fo.”

  If I were still dipping, would I have reacted the same to the site of a US Smokeless Tobacco truck? This truck must have just made its last stop, having basically no merchandise on board. He could have gotten himself killed for just a few cancer sticks!

  How did he know where to find the insignificant amount of tobacco in the truck? Is he a nicotine bloodhound? And how the hell did he pull off that Bruce Lee shit? I swear to God, that fight scene could have been in 300. Maybe to him, just the possibility of sucking tobacco is like spinach for fucking Popeye.

  Even when I was a tobacco user, I don’t believe my habit would have compared to his commitment. I asked the man who was trying to set a world record for smoking a cigarette the fastest, “Is that it?”

  Hammer had made her way around to the cab and stuck her head out of the door. “Look what I got!”

  The Expert was just as good at discovering her poison of choice as The Oracle. I didn’t notice her sneaking up there, maybe she has the same teleportation powers as he.

  She walked in our direction and raised her left hand. “This was the best idea you’ve ever had, big boy!” She shook a nearly full pack of Beech Nut chewing tobacco in her nicotine yellowed hand. The late driver was apparently a chewer and not a smoker.

  I can empathize. Even if they were offering him free Newports. I’ve smoked cigarettes, sure, but I will throw a menthol down no matter how hammered I am.

  Not only does menthol bring to mind drinking a bottle of gasoline and swallowing a lit match, it’s probably just as bad for you.

  She raised her right hand as if just remembering a side note. “Oh, and there’s this.” A beautiful, shiny, straight from the silver screen, Colt 45 1911.

  Jesus Christ! The people around me magically find things that make them unbelievably happy while I’m just lucky not to get fucking bit! Well, Smokes could have smashe
d Alex into the ground by now, I guess I can be thankful for something.

  “We kind of need to get a move on.” I tapped my bare wrist to indicate that time’s wasting.

  The Oracle clicked his tongue and shot a finger pistol at me. “Fo sho dawg.”

  The three of us loaded back into the cabin of the single-engine plane and I wondered how long I was going to be able to breathe through the smoke. I wished we could roll the windows down!

  Our Beaver turned and began speeding up to take off. It’s funny how we could be only feet away from active peevies and somehow not become blue. But there’s always an opportunity we will meet our un-deaths in the next episode. Tune in, same bat time, same bat CHANNEL!

  ☠☠☠

  4

  Mo Journal Entry 3

  I GESTURED MY head in the direction of the airport and could see that there would be enough room for us to land. Smokes had told me earlier “I’s can land dis shit on half a football field,” and there was, miraculously, at least that much runway clear. The fleeing populace obviously didn’t make it off the ground because there were not a lot of stalled jets on the tarmac though there were a few that had veered off into the grass.

  No details were easily visible of the cityscape from this point; I could see the same tall buildings and the same roads, but no movement. Apparently there had been no massive, city destroying fires; Birmingham looked depressingly peaceful. We closed on our landing strip and started the drop.